


Hard boiled

by madluvs



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 13:50:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13548651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madluvs/pseuds/madluvs
Summary: Advice the Joker has always sworn by: Never rub another man's rhubarb. Monster T just never got that memo.A Suicide Squad rewrite of the club scene, altered to give a little more depth to their dynamic and to give it some classic Joker x Harley flair.





	Hard boiled

A coyote was crushed beneath a giant anvil, dropped from a cliffside and down into the cavern. An insufferable talking rabbit was evading the gunshots of a stuttering hunter. A cute-eyed canary taunted a skinny, desperate, stalking cat… Animated and action packed, the brass band of the Looney Tunes theme song crackled out of old speakers, cracking and popping in its loudness. The tiny television’s signal kept dropping, from cartoon to white noise, cartoon to static, but the Joker wasn’t paying much attention to the constant flitting of picture quality. He was staring endlessly at the colours, the quirky animation, eyes glazed and mindless. He was leant back, legs spread, sinking deeper and deeper into the soft comforts of their scuffed leather sofa. Harley’s tunelessly high humming kept him teetering on the edge of awareness, just irritating him enough that he didn’t drop off into a totally dissociative state. Not quite lost to the childish violence of the cartoon crazy.

The warehouse – what was their humble abode – amplified noise and echoed, a cacophony. The TV, Harley’s humming, her hurried use of pots and pans bang-clang-clanging in their crudely made kitchen filled the vacant space, a heightened sound of exaggerated homelife kept the Joker from disappearing into his endless thoughts completely.

Harley was happy like this, without the clown white, her blonde hair wrapped up in a scruffy bun. She loved to play mommys and daddys whenever they shared little moments of downtime together. She’d flip pancakes (he’d find flakes of plaster in his portion since she failed to catch them, always.) She would redecorate and customise the warehouse, fairy lights were wound around every steel beam, splatters of green or red paint would freckle her face. She’d hang his best newspaper clippings in colourful frames and littered with lipstick kisses. He really did love her in those small moments, when she’d smile proudly, a shadow of a woman she desperately wanted to be, how she wanted them to be, and somehow, sometimes they were. Harley worked hard at being the doting wife, the soft lover, the loyal sidekick and companion. It was an elaborate roleplay of another life that Joker couldn’t quite partake in, so he’d placate himself, sit his ass on the couch and stare at the screen like any other husband would do.

The Joker shifted, adjusting his pants and sighing at the shitty signal. “Harley!” He aimed his pistol lazily at the bent wire above the television box. It wasn’t that Harley’s games were boring per say, but there was a real reason why Daddy kept himself busy. Without the meticulous planning, the sleeplessness, the chaos – memories came creeping in the stillness and quiet. But tonight, downtime was necessary. Partly running the Gotham criminal underground meant for meetings behind closed doors (much to his disappointment) and quiet nights that didn’t always draw police attention or panicked crowds (then what really was the point?) Harley made the most of these particular moments, while the Joker played the role she saw fit of him, watched absently when she rolled his cigars or adjusted the television set.

“How’s that puddin’?” she planted a kiss on his cheek and the cartoons were back in all their violent vibrancy, though his gaze followed her as she waltzed back to their kitchen.

She smiled widely from behind the countertop, catching his eye, she looked mild and warm in her flowery apron and a white shirt of his own. Something squeezed viciously at his throat, suddenly unable to swallow and he snapped away from her waving with a wooden spoon in hand, sneered instead of smiling and rummaged for the remote amongst a mess of cushions.

“I hate this channel!” Shouting. A sudden nervous anger stirring in the pit of his stomach. It became too important to change up the channel, an antsy need to get up off the sofa and throw things around in his searching. “Harleeeeeeeey, where’d you put my Tom n’ Jerry tapes?!”

Before she could even answer over the din, the wide shutter doors threw open, bleeding street light into their hideout home. Frost stood, his standard suited unflappable self, accompanied by another figure, their invited guest for the evening, newcomer and self entitled gangster in Gotham City, Monster T. Who nodded, smiled smugly and naively felt welcomed into the warehouse by Joker’s upward glance alone. That tightness was still at his throat. Jaw solid, he watched this acquaintance and his sharply dressed right-hand approach.

Monster T was certainly imposing, impressive in both size and swagger, but an idiot for ever accepting an invite to the Joker’s own Hahacienda without considering the cause. Joker smiled, all teeth and tight – stared at T’s outstretched hand and said nothing.

"The boss doesn't like to be touched,” Frost explained curtly.

“Fair enough,” the man shrugged simply, and he sat when Joker gestured him to, only after taking a seat and settling himself first.

Monster T was mighty pleased with himself, he could tell from the slight simper, his relaxed demeanour, he believed himself privileged (important) to be personally escorted by the Joker’s own PA. Sat back, arms spread, he surveyed Joker’s warehouse with an eyebrow raised, a humoured expression across his scarred face. “Nice place ya’ got here,” he commented, glancing across at Harley less subtley than he most likely thought. Joker felt his molars grind, but offered a tiny fleeting smile at T’s feigned compliment nonetheless.

This wasn’t usual procedure for the Joker, to open house to every wannabe thug in Gotham City. The well educated folks, likes of Falcone and Maroni’s men, never attended any one-to-one time with the clown prince of crime. Considered his business a waste of time and money, knew the likely consequences of meeting with the Joker alone… but sometimes new naive blood, the likes of Monster T, arrived in the city with big dreams, to make a dollar or two in the drug trade, would set up shop on the Joker’s turf unknowingly, mistaking themselves for big shot gangsters, barely grown and stepping on toes all over Gotham. He’d need to be quick to learn it didn’t work like that, either the Joker’s empire got a generous cut, or Monster T got cut, his choice.

The politics of this bored Joker completely, but he understood it necessary from Frost’s strategic suggestions and Harley’s constant nagging for cash. A long time back, before the clowns, cards and needless carnage – before the Bat – he knew he’d relished in the backstabbing, double crossing, dangerous game. Some life of long ago. And there were parts of him that clung to the taste of it. That if he let go he’d lose it completely – and it would be lost to the dark, like so many other memories.

T coughed to clear his throat and Joker was rudely roused back to the land of the living. Smoke filled the room and a strong, bitter, burning odor assaulted his senses. Despite himself, he choked too.

Harley was fanning a flame with a tea towel, was loudly apologetic and flustered, face flushed from the heat of the stove. Whatever she was cooking, was wrecked and oil bubbled. Harley let out little squeaks as she was splattered. “Oops!”

“Oh, wow,” T laughed, waving the smog from his face. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what?” Joker didn’t like that condescending tone.

“You gotta get ya’self a girl that can cook,” T continued matter of factly, chuckling. “Nothin’ better than comin’ home to a hot meal and a warm bed.”

Joker laughed too and he laughed loudly – a sharp and barking sound that came suddenly and unexpectedly, breaking the casual conversation and shattering the illusion of their like-mindedness. He rolled his eyes. Typical Harley, right? What a useless, stupid woman, couldn’t even cook a couple of eggs right, and all in front of their welcome visitor! He glared, still grinning at T, “you’re tellin’ me!” Joker cracked, slapping his thigh. The chaos in the kitchen went silent. “Hey, why don’t you join us for dinner?” Joker leaned in, elbows on knees. “What d’ya say?” He didn’t wait nor care for a response. “Harley, sweetness, light of my life, get out the good china – we got ourselves a guest!”

“Oh goodie!” Harley squealed, followed by some more bang-clang-clanging of pots, the fire finally extinguished. Room for more failing of Harley’s home economics.

“Look, Joker, man, I didn’t mean –”

He raised his hand, kept his smile. “Ah-ah-ah. Dinner first, business second.”

It was true, Harley had her faults. Hell, she had more faults than the next one – and if he were to write a list, it’d be as long as his arm. She couldn’t cook for shit, sure. She didn’t make much sense, she had a tendency to blow off the handle at every little thing. She was difficult. She was a disaster. But Harley was his woman, riddled with mistakes and imperfections that made her all the more perfect for him. Who was this jumped up prick to be telling him the kinda woman he needed? Who was he to speak up at all? He was just some cunt from Chicago, selling coke on his streets, with the cheek – the ignorance, the sheer fucking audacity – to open his snake mouth and spit shit on his Harley Quinn.

T was no longer slouching, back straight and solid, and no longer as smug or as proud as his entrance. He shifted his dark eyes from Harley (who was sing-songing so happily) to Joker, whose head was tilted, watching in silence.

“Seriously– no need, I already ate,” T tried, squirming and swallowing, his adam’s apple bobbing.

“Don’t be silly,” Joker waggled one signet ring finger. “A man’s never full, is he?” He narrowed his gaze, grinning. “Don’t insult me now.”

T gushed, guffawed, “I wouldn't wanna –”

“Hope yer hungry boys!” Harley crooned, in that dulcet high and trying tone of hers. “Mama’s made her best yet!” She pulled, with an excruciatingly painful scraping on concrete, the coffee table up to their feet, set down three bowls, three sets of rusty spoons. “You too, Frosty? This’ll warm ya' right up!” She giggled at her own terrible pun and Joker felt his eyes rolling upwards.

“Hurry it along Harls–” Joker was persistent. “We’re starving here.”

“Yessirree!” She saluted, her hand inside a massive oven mitt. “Comin’ right up!” and tottered back to the oven where her burnt broth was bubbling.

Monster T was sweating, brow shining, his t-shirt was soaked at the neck and it wasn’t the heat from the kitchen that had him shifting uncomfortably. He blinked at the bowls, and the table before him. Fingers were twitching, he looked to the shutters. “Have I done somethin’ to–”

“Let’s eat!” Joker had grabbed for his spoon, sat anticipating a feast with his feet tapping the floor.

Harley returned, stumbling with the sheer weight of the cooking pot, a mitten and a thick towel wrapped up to her elbows. She was smiling proudly, though the pot smelt rancid. Even the infallible Frost flinched as the scent reached him. Joker gave an exaggerated “can’t wait,” meeting with Monster T across the table. He was clearly panicked by the pot and it’s bubbling. The stench of hot oil. The simple man seemed like he was finally getting the message.

“Look, Joker, I don’t want no beef…”

“No beef?” Joker repeated, scoffing. “No beef?” And Harley hung at Joker’s side, joining in on the forced laughter. “You hear that sweet cheeks, he doesn’t want any beef!”

“Just as well then puddin’ that I made minestrone!” Harley cackled. And with all of her might, thrust the pot over, pouring all of it’s scalding contents onto T’s head. He reacted too late, taking a face full of the molten liquid. Clothes stuck to his flesh and tore in one fluid, flailing movement. He screamed only once before the screeches turned to gurgles. Skin sloughed from the bone, soft tender threads of blood and tissue, sinew that fizzed and bubbled and bloated. He was blinded, bawling and mouth gaping silently for mercy. And then he was gone, twitching as he tumbled onto the table. Nerve endings buzzing as he bled out and boiled over.

“How’s that tastin’ huh?” Harley asked, clearly just as (if not more so) offended by Monster T’s comments.

Joker was still laughing, snarling, prodding at the trembling mess as a crackling scent of pork hit the back of his throat. He howled with sadist delight and disgust. “Just like mother used to make!” And pulled Harley in for a smack on the cheek. That’s my girl. Who says she’s a bad cook? Joker clicked his fingers. “Frost, clear this shit off my table. Harley wants to make us some eggs.“

"Sunny side up, baby?”

“Sunny side up poo.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'd written this after a few requests to do so after throwing out a random headcanon about the club scene on my blog. I wanted to bring back the dynamic the clown duo are most famously loved for & I hope this one shot gives that vibe. 
> 
> If you'd like to request a different SS scene written in this style -- drop in a request in a comment below, or inbox me at madluv.tumblr.com.
> 
> Hope yall enjoyed it, all my mad love, L x


End file.
